Peter J. Shippy : poet

Dusktime

Sheriff Singh bowls his orange lifesaverAcross the millponds tin-hued ice. ThisIs practice. His turban glows like crocus. A remote-controlled blue heron scudsFrom the scrub pines and lands in a splinterOf frozen cattails. I take my handsFrom their pink mittens and tom-tomMy face. Out of respect for the whitetailThe North Brothers keep a mannequin(Above my head) in their deer blind tower. She wears a red wig. Let down your hair.Pull me to you and well pursue happiness. A call oozes from the cruisers radio:A fender-bender near the living Nativity. Singh pulls his doughnut to shore and drivesFor town. Who will save me? The heronScoops the air. Does someone see and hearThrough birds? Can fish detect my heat?The sun is a wedge of withered lemon. My fingers fall numb. I hold my breath.